


Ghosts of the Past

by actuallyfeanor



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy, Folklore, Gen, Ghosts, Knitting, Maglor Is A Cryptid, Mild Gore, Old Wives' Tales, Orcs, Third Age, Will-o'-the-wisp - Freeform, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/pseuds/actuallyfeanor
Summary: Ghost stories from Middle Earth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Ghosts of the Past

1.  
He has been here before, this place even the filthy orcs fear. There are paths through the mud and rancid clumps of rotting vegetation, for those who know what to look for, whose eyes are attuned to the darkness and whose sole instinct is survival. Gollum knows the way, skipping lightly from tuft to tuft, careful not to touch the water and the dead things in it. Men, elves, remnants of a battle long ago, of which his grandmother used to tell tales. Before. Before the Precious came, and the darkness, and the otherness in his mind that made him shun the light and flee deep deep deep into the mountains, where only pale fish and nasty goblins sustained him, where Baggins stole the Precious. _Thief!_

The dead things in the water do not bother him. They stay below the surface, he stays above. Besides, they do not taste as good as fish. But the lights are a different matter. The flickering flames dancing over the marshes, the faintest outline of a tall figure glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, the otherworldly laughter like the wind howling past the windows in the dead of winter. He thinks of the other tales his grandmother told him. The ancient legends, even older than the battle. _A long time ago in a faraway land, there lived a smith. A great craftsman he was, renowned for his creations, but he was too proud, and pride became his fall. He fell into darkness and wicked deeds, and when he finally died, the Doomsman would not let him enter his halls. So the smith was doomed to roam the Earth forevermore, with only a glowing coal to light his way. And in the still of the night, in dark places where no mortals dare to set foot, you can hear his cold, cruel laughter and see his flickering flame tempting you to leave the path. Never follow his flame, my child, for he will lead you to your death._

The figure has moved closer, somehow becoming more substantial. And Smeagol is deathly afraid.

\---

2.  
Himring is a wasteland, a lonely island in the sea west of the Blue Mountains. Seldom do Elves venture there nowadays.

However, if they did, they might stumble upon some curious ruins. There used to be a fortress on Himring, one of the great bulwarks against the Enemy in ages long gone.

The visitor might, in the golden light of the setting sun, catch a fleeting glimpse of the Lord of Himring himself, tall and crowned with copper, a king in all but name. And should they spend the night on the island, they might dream of hells of iron, of war and grief and blood and dust, and wake up in a cold sweat, flexing the muscles and tendons of their right hand to reassure themselves that it is still there.

Seldom do Elves venture to Himring nowdays. The king of ash and ruins waits in silence on his lonely island.

\---

3.  
The life of a lighthouse keeper is a lonely one, and yet it suits him. He always preferred the cries of the seagulls and the raging waves to crying children and raging wives. On stormy nights he sits in front of the fire, deft fingers working on a new woolen jumper to replace the old one, and he takes pride and joy in this craft, in shaping the rough-spun yarn into something useful that will keep him warm and shield him from the elements. Lately he has begun trying out new patterns, twisting the stitches to add braided cables running along the sleeves. It is a simple life, but a good one.

Some nights are different. On those nights the wind stills, the moon hides behind a cloud, the birds fall silent, and the lighthouse keeper thinks he can hear the far-off sound of a harp, a melancholy tune sending shivers down his spine, floating out of the darkness. Then he picks up his knitting, seats himself in front of the fire with his back towards the empty room and starts counting.

_One stitch._

A gust of cold air fills the room.

_Two stitches._

He thinks he can hear the creak of a floorboard coming from below.

_Three stitches._

Stairs creaking.

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

_Seven._

_Eight._

Someone else is in the room with him. The far-off harp music is louder now. It is not of this world, of that the lighthouse keeper is sure. Someone is standing behind him, watching, waiting. The lighthouse keeper dares not turn around, afraid of what he might see. So he keeps his eyes fixed on the fire, counting stitches, barely breathing.

_Nine-and-ninety._

_One hundred._

The harp music stops, the wind picks up again, and somewhere in the night a bird calls out. The lighthouse keeper finally turns away from the fire, noting the empty room with relief. He already longs for the safe embrace of the winter storms, their reassuring roar against the walls of the lighthouse. The life of a lighthouse keeper is a lonely one. Though sometimes less lonely than what is entirely to his liking.

\---

4.  
As the legend goes, there lives a white stag in these woods. Generations of kings have hunted it, hoping to bring such a royal prize home, but it always evades them. The old women, keepers of tales and wisdom, say that a curse lies upon it, and that a wise king would leave it be and seek other prey on his hunts. Some kings do not heed their wisdom, and horses return lame, dogs are gored to death by the stag's horns. One prince falls from his horse and tumbles over a cliff; the courtiers bringing his broken body back to his father claim that he set off at a gallop in pursuit of the stag. The wise old women shake their heads and exchange glances. Kings and their sons will seldom heed wisdom before it is too late.

\---

5.  
There were whispers on the Plains that night. The orcs in their camps stirred restlessly in their sleep. A wind rose over the Sea of Núrnen, a fell wind that chilled Muzgash to the bone when it reached him in his hiding place in the foothills of Ered Lithui. He had been running for hours; a mad dash for what he hoped was the safety of the mountains. The whispers followed him. In the cold, clear night, the stars above hurt his eyes with their cold, piercing light, and the whispers, equally cold, seemed to pierce his skin with ten thousand needles. He was the only one left now. They had been ten. A company of orcs on their way to the Black Gate. Muzgash did not know what had happened to the others. He only suspected. One by one, they had vanished in the night, as the cold whispers grew stronger. Muzgash knew that no living creature could escape the ever-watching eye of his Great Lord. That only told him one thing. The whispers were not from the world of the living. All orcs feared death, the cold of the grave overcoming their warm flesh and blood. Eager to deal death, they were no more eager to face it than were the Men they fought. They feared the dead too. The Nine were dead, or rather un-dead, but they were the servants of the Great Lord, and though the orcs feared them, they were no enemies. But all orcs knew the tales, whispered around the campfires, of the other ones. The ones who served no lord, showed no mercy, left no trace. The undying dead.

Something wet was dripping down Muzgash’ neck. It might have been rain in any land but the arid Mordor, but Muzgash recognized the familiar smell of blood. He turned around. Skewered on a long spear were the heads of his nine companions. Behind them stood a pale apparition, gleaming with starlight. Muzgash recoiled in horror. The apparition spoke, and its whispering, mocking voice was a blast of cold air from deep barrow-halls in the depths of the earth: “You will bring this gift to your master, _yrch_. Tell the Lord Sauron that Celebrimbor sends his regards”


End file.
